For the rest of the Gods to gather and crowd.
O brother, good brother, what’s that to the rear?
A canoe is approaching, it fills me with fear,
For the white gods are paddling; they dress all in red,
And the skin of their hands looks like that of the dead.
O brother, good brother, bend low and keep still.
See the God in the bow, he is white-haired and ill.
Let us hide in the palms, ere they step on the shore,
Let us watch in the grass ’til this danger is o’er.
They jump to the beach, raise a cross-stick on high,